


Metamorphosis

by siennavie



Series: Metamorphosis [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Angst, Bottom Dean, Dom Sam, Dom/sub, M/M, Post-Hell, Sub Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2017-12-21 23:26:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/906196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siennavie/pseuds/siennavie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean isn't the sub he was before.  Sam shows him that he's still perfect.  S4 AU (but includes spoilers for S4) set in a BDSM universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The one thing you need to know going into this: This is an alternate universe where everyone is either a sub or a dom. I don't set up the world at the start, because that wasn't the tale I was focused on telling; rather, you get hints of the outside world along the way.
> 
> I'm by no means an expert on BDSM, so don't take notes from me. If you're looking for hardcore BDSM, this (currently) isn't the story for you. If the story runs its course, we may get there. In the meantime, there will be other kinks to enjoy.

**DEAN**

The man—Dean doesn’t know his name only that the stranger is a few inches taller, broader, with an obvious kink for leather—jerks his chin at the metal frame. Dean feels a cold sweat break at the back of his neck, but he ignores it, keeps his head down, pushes his feet forward, and locks his muscles as the man buckles him in. Arms straight out to the side. Ankles apart. He’s still wearing his black boxer briefs but feels completely bare. He concentrates on breathing. In. Out. He can do this. He’s done this before, visited establishments like this to find release when he was hunting alone and couldn’t fend off the solitude of the night. He tries not to remember that the last time was almost a half-century ago.

He curls his hand around the metal chains, tries to ground himself, but they bite like the sharp edge of a knife, cold and unforgiving. Goosebumps prickle his skin. Someone's speaking to him, the voice rising up telltale at the end; he absently nods in response to the question he didn’t hear. The nipple clamps are an electric jolt to his system, a sting to his already raw nerves; the chain between them is heavy and pulls with no relief. He shivers as the man whispers words of endearment— _slut, cocksucker, whore_ —and he bows his head in acceptance; they’re already carved into his soul after all. He welcomes the feeling of familiarity, thinks he’s got a handle on it now, even though the tremors in his muscles and the chill in his bones say otherwise.

The first crack of the paddle nearly buckles his knees. The chain bounces against his chest, cruelly yanking his already sensitive nipples. His eyes water and he bites his lip as he tries to find his balance, find the head space that would turn this into pleasure, not agony. _Crack_. He tries to relax and give in to the sensation. _Crack_. He distantly hears a growled “ _slut…beg for it…let me hear you beg for it.” Crack._ He tries to obey, but his mouth feels dry. His skin feels alien, resentful, and won’t obey any of his commands. _Crack._ He can tell there’s no broken skin or blood, but it feels wrong—all wrong. _Crack._ That one wrenches a cry from him, but the man takes it as encouragement and comes back even harder. He tries— _crack_ —blinks away the moisture and the blackness at the edge of his vision, gulps down air that won't reach his starving lungs. He can’t. He can't. He doesn’t trust his body anymore, his mind. There’s a red haze everywhere he looks, the stench of rotting flesh in his nostrils, the piercing cries of the damned in his ears. _Crack. Crack. Crack._ He chokes out his safe word and instantly feels mortified.

The air is now still, but no less suffocating. Long seconds pass. A bead of sweat runs down between Dean's eyebrows to the tip of his nose and hangs there in anticipation. He can't see or hear anything from the man, and Dean's about ready to panic when the paddle suddenly clatters to the floor. The man stops, thankfully, but Dean can see the man's disbelief and disgust as he none-too-gently removes the bindings and walks out of sight through the heavy velvet drapes, all without a word of comfort or a shred of concern. Dean raises shaking hands to gently remove the clamps, and even though he knows what to expect, the bright pinpoints of pain still takes his breath away. Dean stumbles on shaky knees to the corner of the room where his clothes are piled, sucks in a harsh breath and tries to calm his racing heart. He wipes his shirt across his brow before yanking it over his head and jams his legs back into his jeans, trying to piece together the scraps of his dignity. He fingers the white ribbon around his neck, a symbol of an unclaimed sub, before yanking at the ties and throwing it to the floor. He’s so caught up in his misery as he steps through the curtains and back into the dimly lit club that he’s blindsided by the large hand that grabs his upper arm and drags him tripping and stumbling gracelessly through the back exit into the dark alleyway.

Instinct kicks in then, and he jerks away into the shadows. The hand lets go easily, and Dean whirls around ready to throw a right hook. But the man hasn’t followed him; he’s standing by the door, looking like the devil in a halo of red light, glaring at him with angry and accusing eyes. Dean tenses, waiting, until a familiar voice shatters the silence.

“What the hell was that, Dean?!”

 

**SAM**

Sam’s thankful for the darkness in the club that gives his large and not-exactly-inconspicuous frame plenty of places to hide. Although, with the way Dean’s been acting lately, he doubts his brother would have noticed him even if the room had been lit by the sun. He tucks himself into a corner and keeps his eyes trained on Dean. Most of the club’s patrons who wander by seem to sense his mood and stay away. He scowls at the ones that don’t; the Doms smirk in amusement while the subs just scurry away.

There’s a boiling in his blood that he doesn’t want to acknowledge as he watches his brother. Dean sits in the center of an oversized lounging bed in a mound of crimson pillows, knees folded demurely under him. Unsurprisingly, he’s being courted by a couple of Doms; more circle waiting for their chance. Dean is the prettiest sub in the room by far, even in his plain gray tee and ripped jeans. He doesn’t have to do up his face like any of the other subs around here; his bright green eyes, long lashes, and lush mouth are tantalizing enough. The only decoration is the white ribbon around his neck in lieu of his usual necklace. It’s a beacon in the dark and a clear invitation to Doms who want to play.

Dean’s received a few offers already, whispered words in his ear, but he has yet to accept any; those who don’t know Dean might call him an attention whore or a teasing bitch, but Sam can tell his brother is nervous by the tight smile on his face and the one hand clenching and unclenching unconsciously by his thigh. With each suitor though, his brother seems to relax a fraction, until finally he nods at one man’s request and follows him toward the back rooms.

Sam follows. The stranger is about Sam’s size, wearing leather like a glove from brawny neck to burly ankle, and Sam hates him immediately. He’s grateful though when the man chooses the covered alcove at the end of the hall where there’s practically no foot traffic. Once the two men have disappeared inside, Sam flattens himself against the wall next to the curtains and pushes aside the velvet to peek in.

The music and chatter is less overpowering here, but still loud enough to thwart Sam’s attempt to eavesdrop on their conversation. He’ll have to make do with body language and reading their lips whenever he can. Already, he doesn’t like the way Dean just nods at everything the Dom says as he gets undressed and strapped in, his own lips practically sealed shut.

Sam’s had twenty years of extremely close quarters to learn Dean’s tells. And it’s obvious to him right now, even with just a view of his brother’s back, that Dean is struggling to fall. He can see the effort in the too-stiff neck and white-knuckled grip on the chains. Sees the way Dean’s body leans away from, rather than into the blows. Sam knows that the more Dean tries to claw his way into subspace, the exact opposite will happen. He doesn’t know who he's angrier with, Dean for stubbornly soldiering on or the Dom for missing the cues. When Dean cries out, loud enough to overcome the music, with nothing but pain, it strikes Sam like a physical blow. His rage is boiling over. Just when he’s about to barge in and put an end to this mess, everything comes to a grinding halt. Sam forces himself back against the wall and waits. The man has lowered his striking arm and is just standing there, unmoving. Sam doesn't get what's happening, until the Dom finally circles around, looking put out and annoyed as he hastily removes the cuffs and huffs out the doorway, leaving Dean barely upright and completely alone.

Sam’s anger manages to go up a few notches when the pathetic excuse of a Dom exits the room, muttering “lousy sub” under his breath. He almost slams the man up against the wall, imagines painting that face red: _Did you learn anything about your sub before jumping in with the paddle, dick? It looked like a one-sided conversation to me. And leaving a sub in a state like that? Fucking selfish asshole._

Sam pushes down that physical urge though and watches the man walk away; his brother is more important right now. When Sam peeks in again, Dean is putting his clothes back on with angry jerks. But Sam can see the anger for what it really is—shame. To underscore that, Dean rips the white ribbon off his neck, trampling it on his way out. Dean’s always been bigger than life to Sam, the perfect picture of confidence and swagger, but he looks small right now, head hanging low as he pushes blindly through the curtains.

Dean takes a step towards the main room, and all Sam can think is _Hell no_ before grabbing his brother’s arm and unceremoniously dragging him out the back door.


	2. Chapter 2

**DEAN**

The man in leather wasn’t the first Dom that Dean’s disappointed since coming back topside. And right now, he’s not the last one either. Dean knows he’s damaged goods, but the truth is even more brutal when it’s written on Sam’s face. With the other Doms, just a _Sir_ or _Master_ , he could dismiss their pitying looks or scathing remarks after pouring a bottle of whiskey down his gullet and putting a couple hundred miles in his rearview mirror. He could conveniently forget that the damage had already been done. But here, with Sam just a couple feet away having witnessed his humiliation, Dean feels utterly and irrevocably destroyed, every rip and tear he’s ever collected reopened and magnified a hundred-fold.

Through his shocked stupor, the bruising pounding of his heart and the unrelenting ache in his flesh, he makes his feet move, and somehow he finds himself back at their motel room staring at the ugly puce-colored wall. Sam’s in the room too, but his brother is keeping his distance and his trap shut…for now.

He can feel Sam’s gaze boring into his back, hear the heavy controlled breathing. It won’t be long before his brother blows. Sam’s too much like a pit bull; Dean knows he won’t let go. He doesn’t want to face Sam, but he’d rather come out swinging than take it lying down. He doesn’t need his brother telling him how fucked up he is; the look on that Dom’s face had been enough for tonight. The room is tiny, the air charged with unchecked emotions, so it’s easy to arouse his anger.

“Don’t you dare say a word, Sam. This is none of your fucking business.”

Sam jumps at the opening and doesn’t miss a beat. “None of my business, Dean?”—a huff of disbelief—“When my _brother_ is in sleazy back-alley clubs, giving himself up, _in handcuffs no less_ , to shitty, irresponsible Do–“

Dean turns around with a scowl and a pointed finger at Sam’s chest. “Fuck you! I don’t need a chaperone.”

Sam’s making an obvious effort to stand still, every muscle locked up and fists bunched by his side; his face is thunderous when he replies, “No? From what I saw today, you need to be tied to the bed until you come to your fucking senses! What were you thinking letting the scene go on when you knew that you weren’t in the right mindset? You could have gotten hurt! _You did_.”

“Did you conveniently miss the part where I used my safe word?” Dean retorts, his voice rising several decibels to match Sam.

“Oh right, after letting him torture you for fi–“

“I know what I’m doing, _Sam_.”

“It didn’t look that way to me, _Dean_.”

“You think you know better cause you’re a _Dom_?” he sneers, all his bitterness surging to the surface, “can tell me what to do just ‘cause I’m a sub?”

“That’s _not_ it. Don’t put words in my mouth,” Sam snaps.

“What then?!” Dean spits, suddenly immeasurably furious with Sam’s insinuations. “You think you can do better?” he yells. “Put me in my place... _Fix_ me? I’m _NOT BROKEN!_ ” His voice cracks on the final word, betraying his confidence, and Dean stumbles to a horrified stop. He hadn’t meant to say that. Never wanted to hear it aloud.

Sam just looks at him steadily, doesn’t reply and doesn’t need to. They both know it’s a lie.

Dean feels a burning pressure behind his eyes, a sharp pang in his chest. There’s not enough oxygen for his lungs, much less to fan the flames of anger. He feels the energy to fight quickly bleeding out of him, but he knows Sam won’t back off. He lowers his voice, tries to sound reasonable. “You don’t know anything, Sam. So stop acting like you do. You don’t understand.”

He’s ashamed of the tremble that crept into his voice as he spoke, but that seems to diffuse Sam's anger. “What I know,” his brother says quietly, gently, “is that Hell messed with your mind. That much is obvious and it’s nothing, _nothing_ to be ashamed of. But if I don’t know the details? It’s because you won’t tell me, not because I haven’t asked.”

Dean shakes his head, reluctantly acknowledging the truth in that statement. He rubs his face with one hand and starts pacing, anxious now that he’s actually thinking about spilling his guts to Sam. His pride has been stripped away and beaten down to shit tonight...what has he got to lose now? Sam’s looking at him encouragingly, but Dean can’t stand the kindness in those eyes, so he turns his back and fixes his gaze on the blank, impartial wall.

It takes him more than a few minutes to steady himself, steel himself for the memories; Sam remains silent. “It wasn't four months, you know. It was four months up here, but down there... Time's different. It was more like 40 years…” He stutters, swallows back the tears and the bile threatening to choke him as he lays his secrets bare.

**SAM**

The torture was pretty much a given to Sam – they’re talking about Hell after all – but it's still horrifying to hear the grisly details coming from Dean’s mouth. Forty years. Oh God. He’s so distracted by the possibilities, the trappings of his own imagination, that he almost misses Dean’s final words, spoken so softly, but wracked with so much guilt and suffering.

“I can’t do it anymore, Sammy,” Dean’s voice wobbles. “You saw me out there. You said it yourself. I can’t handle it. I’m shit for a sub. I can’t do any of the things I used to…I freak out. I can’t be what they want me to be.” Dean laughs harshly, hollowly. “Who wants a sub like me?”

Sam’s fury rekindles listening to Dean degrade and devalue himself. He wants to strangle all the Doms who have belittled Dean into believing that he’s the one at fault. When he speaks, his voice comes out harsher than he intends, “So you don’t enjoy pain anymore and bondage makes you flip the fuck out. Who wouldn’t be that way after _forty years of torture._ ” He ruthlessly emphasizes every single word, because Dean needs to hear and accept the damning truth. When Dean flinches, Sam feels a pang of guilt, but none of remorse.

Still, he doesn’t want to rub salt in his brother’s already raw wounds, so he gentles the tone of his voice, but speaks just as firmly, “I’m not surprised that your dynamics have changed, and that’s all it is—change. That doesn’t make you a bad sub now, Dean.” He puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder, steps into his brother’s space.

Dean backpedals, tries to skitter away, but Sam spins him around and crowds him against the wall, boxes him in with his arms. He leans close enough to feel the shuddering rise and fall of Dean’s chest against his own. He needs Dean to hear this.

Dean turns his head, won’t look him in the eye. He’s blinking rapidly, swallowing hard, obvious signs that he’s trying not to cry. Sam rubs his thumb over the pink rise of Dean’s cheekbone, “It’s obvious that you still want to please, to be _good_.” Dean closes his eyes, buries his cheek even further against the wall. “That’s what I want in a sub. Someone who wants to be good for me. But being good doesn’t mean doing only what I want. Being good is knowing what _you_ want and telling me, so I can be good for you, too. It’s a two-way street, Dean.”

Dean still won’t look at him, so Sam pushes forward relentlessly. “ _They_ ,” he makes a broad sweeping gesture at the world outside the dusty motel windows, “don’t know you, what you’ve been through. _They_ can’t even begin to understand. Everything they’ve told you about being a bad sub is _bullshit_ , Dean. I might not know everything you’ve been through, and I’ll never be able to completely understand, but I will do _anything_ to give you what you need.”

He leans in until his lips are a breath away from Dean’s ear. “I want you, Dean,” he whispers. He feels his brother’s whole body shudder against his, and he can’t help the burst of arousal in his belly. It’s not in his nature as a Dom to plead, but he lets it bleed through in his voice now. “Think about it, ok, and come to me when you’re ready.” He won’t do anything without his brother’s permission, can’t feel like he’s taking advantage of Dean’s fragile state right now, so he steps away, lets Dean escape to the bathroom and slam the door.

Sam undresses, puts away his anger, fear and hope, and slips under the covers of his bed. He feels completely drained right now. When he hears the shower start, he sighs and closes his eyes.

*****

It’s still dark when Sam awakes. His eyes feel gritty and his body aches which means he hasn’t been sleeping long. He feels a prickle on his skin that tells him he’s being watched, but not that he’s in danger. He doesn’t move, just slits open one eye enough to see Dean’s silhouette sitting on the edge of his bed, fiddling with something in his hands, but it’s too dark to see what. Sam hopes that Dean goes to sleep before Sam’s forced to do something about it. He shuts his eyes, waits, and sighs inwardly in relief when he hears his brother sliding under his own covers a minute later.

*****

When Sam awakes again, he’s greeted by the first rays of sunlight breaking through the threadbare curtains. Dean’s curled up, facing away from him, the quiet snores and gentle rise and fall of his chest indicating that he’s still deeply asleep.

Sam gets up from bed as quietly as he can and makes his way to the shower. The hot water is refreshing, and he’s happy to finally wash away the sweat and smells from last night. Though he lingers on the memory of Dean’s body stretched on display at the club, of his brother’s firm body pressed against his, so familiar and yet so foreign at the same time. They’ve played together before, but early on when they were still all lanky limbs and inexperienced hands trying to figure out their dynamics and didn’t have any true and trustworthy friends to turn to. Sam developed his less-than-brotherly feelings for Dean then. They never had sex—that’s where Dean had drawn the line much to Sam’s displeasure—simply explored and learned their way around toys (the ones they could sneak in while Dad was away) with each other, Sam swinging the flogger and Dean bearing the lashes. Dean would awkwardly walk away afterwards and finish jerking off in the bathroom, with Sam listening through the door and taking his turn right after (if he hadn’t already shot his load, which happened more often than not).

It’s been so long and the memories of Dean’s moans and gasps are just a hollow echo in Sam’s mind, but he finds his hand drifting down anyways, fantasizing about what Dean would sound like now, hoping he gets the chance to find out.


	3. Chapter 3

**DEAN**

Dean rouses slowly, feeling bone weary after last night’s emotional and physical roller coaster. When he finally blinks open sleep-crusted eyes to pale sunlight, it dawns on him that he slept through the night without a single vision of Hell jolting him awake or haunting him until morning could break the spell. _At least one good thing came from last night_ he thinks, but there’s little satisfaction knowing how it came about. Hell is familiar territory; this thing with Sam…isn’t.

Dean brings his right hand up to rub his face, but stiffens in surprise when silky red satin slides through his fingers, pooling onto his pillow like blood. Shit. He hastily fists the fabric and shoves his hand underneath the pillow. He forgot that he had taken the damn thing to bed with him. Had Sam seen it? His body relaxes slightly when he picks up the sound of the shower running, but he knows that the answer isn’t a concrete “No”. There’s really nothing he can do now except hope. He looks over his shoulder to confirm his brother is in the bathroom before sliding out of bed and towards his duffle. He neatly folds the delicate slip of fabric and tucks it back inside a small zippered pocket, feeling something close to regret mingled with relief when it’s out of sight.

When Dean’s hands itch less than a minute later to touch the satin again, he busies himself with getting dressed and getting breakfast. By the time he returns to the room, Sam is sitting at the table, gazing intently at his laptop screen. His brother looks up briefly to acknowledge Dean’s return, takes the proffered coffee and breakfast sandwich with a distracted thanks, then begins to rattle off the options for their next case, and it’s like last night had never happened.

Soon, they’re packed up and heading west to Bedford, Iowa, where three people had been murdered by their spouses within two short months. The seemingly endless stretch of road, the wide open skies, and the purr of his baby scream of freedom and are almost enough to make Dean forget what happened just a hundred miles ago.

*****

The collar worn by the motel clerk is thick, but supple-looking, black leather. The man is middle-aged, has tattoos up and down his pale thin forearms, and piercings in his nose and eyebrow. He looks a little menacing on first sight, but when Dean walks up, he smiles wide as the sun and greets Dean with just as much warmth. While the man is taking down his information, a tall, striking woman appears from the back room. She smiles politely at Dean, then turns to speak quietly with the man…her sub, Dean realizes, based on their intimate body language. He catches snippets of their conversation “can’t find”, “top drawer”, and “perfect, as always,” before she places a kiss on his cheek and leaves. The affection between them is palpable, and Dean feels a sudden twist of longing and envy. Over the years, he’s managed to disconnect himself, empty his emotions when watching other couples, but something about this display hits him harder than usual. He manages to muster up a smile when the clerk hands him the room keys and wishes him a comfortable stay.

With their dangerous life on the road, Dean has learned to be satisfied with one-night-stands, fooling around with other subs if he can’t find a decent club for a proper scene. He’s never really allowed himself to consider the idea of forever with someone, because it didn’t seem possible…until now.

*****

When he dons his FBI suit and fake badge the next day, it’s like sliding into a new skin. Dean easily slips into his professional, authoritative alternate ego, happy to leave behind his everyday shoes for a while. They split up; Dean drops Sam off at the medical examiner’s office to acquire the work-ups and then heads to the prison to interview the accused. The guilt and overwhelming grief is clear on every one of the suspects' faces. Dean figures they must have been under the influence of something very powerful in order to brutally murder someone they loved. With some firm coaxing, he learns that they all visited the same club the night of their crimes, that they all hooked up with a different person but that this person was “perfect”, “a dream”, “a fantasy” in the eyes of their beholder. He also learns that they are all subs; if faint collar marks didn't give them away, it was the starry-eyed way in which they described their illicit encounter.

When he reunites with Sam to compare notes, Dean deliberately leaves out the last part. The last thing he needs is his brother in mother hen mode and preventing him from doing his job. Besides, three subs isn’t exactly a conclusive MO, or so he tells himself.

Later that day, they visit the club together, but get no help from the unconcerned dick who calls himself manager. Bobby comes through as usual though and puts a name to their monster—a Siren. This is a new one for them, but Bobby eventually sorts through the inconsistent lore and figures out the most likely way to gank the sonofabitch, “a bronze dagger, covered in the blood of a sailor, under the spell of the song.”

Since they’re no closer to figuring out who the monster is, they switch gears and focus instead on getting the juice to exterminate the bug. At the ME's office, they’re startled when a real Fed walks into the office and demands to check their credentials, but a simple phone call to Bobby, their “FBI AD”, settles the cock fight that had been brewing.

The new guy, Nick, opens up immediately, enthusiastic to share his findings on the case. Nick doesn’t appear eager to leave them to their business any time soon, so Dean grudgingly takes Nick to “investigate” the club, so that Sam can retrieve the blood samples. After Nick whistles at his baby and worships Dean’s music collection, Dean starts to think that the new guy isn’t so bad. He upgrades his opinion of Nick to awesome when he finds himself having more fun than he’s had in ages swapping rock trivia over good beer. He finds himself slowly but inexorably gravitating closer to Nick, and Nick doesn’t seem to mind.

When they leave, Dean’s enjoying the slight buzz, not all of it from the alcohol, and walks close enough to Nick so that their elbows brush. He doesn’t resist when Nick slams him up against the building wall and plants a solid one on his lips. After that though, the memories become all warm and fuzzy. Somehow they get to a motel room. Then all he knows are large hands stripping him, pushing him down, light teasing caresses over his skin, sweet murmurs of “good boy”, “so beautiful”, and “perfect Dean”. And yes, Dean wants to be all that and more. “Sam” he sighs, arches his back, offers up his flesh, and shivers at the deep groan above him that vibrates to his very core. The sheets are rough and pilly, but the friction, combined with the rest of his other senses in overdrive feel _glorious_ , nothing like anything he’s ever felt before, and he rubs himself wantonly against any and every surface, lost in the dream.

Then, for a split second, he sees double. Two pairs of hazel eyes, two pointy noses, before they both disappear. He’s distantly aware of voices, loud thumps and crashes, but he can’t bring himself to care, just moans at the loss of heat and touch. A sharp, stabbing pain erupts in his shoulder, and he’s snapped out of the trance like a rubber band stretched too thin, like surfacing too quickly from the ocean deep, and Dean can’t breathe. He jack-knifes upwards, doubles over, trying to break the vise around his chest, falls off the too tiny bed, and hits the floor hard. The last thing he remembers before surrendering to the blackness is Sam’s voice calling his name over and over again.

**SAM**

It’s a blow to discover that all of the blood samples have been stolen, but Sam knows they must be close to the Siren if the thing is trying to cover its tracks now. The ME, Cara, doesn't have any helpful information and spends most of the time flirting blatantly with him instead. Sam’s flattered, but when Cara makes a move, he swiftly but kindly shuts her down. He feels like he’s betraying Dean; even though Dean hasn’t committed to him yet, he doesn’t want to shut that door before he gets an answer.

Dean won’t be back for a while to pick him up, so Sam walks to a nearby diner to get a bite to eat. He shoots Dean a text, so his brother will know where to find him. Just as he’s finishing up his salad, his phone rings, but it's not Dean like he expects. “Sam,” Bobby’s voice is intense and worried, and Sam straightens up in his seat immediately. “I've been doing more research and I came across some information…don’t know if you boys figured it out, but the Sirens, they target subs.” Sam furrows his brows, letting that sink in. “Their venom works best on them, because it amplifies their desire to submit,” Bobby explains. “Doms have a better chance of resisting. I tried calling Dean first, but he isn’t answering. Is he with you?” Bobby's voice sounds hopeful, as Sam's stomach sinks like a stone.

“No,” and then “Shit. He’s at the club right now.” He starts scrambling for his wallet to pay the bill. “I gotta go, Bobby.”

“Sam, I'm so sor–,” he faintly hears before he hangs up. “Shit shit shit,” Sam repeats like a mantra as he tries Dean’s number. Voicemail. And again. Voicemail. Sam's gut is screaming at him that something is wrong.

In the parking lot, Sam doesn’t hesitate to pick the lock and hotwire the dusty grey sedan sitting under a shady tree. He dials one more time—voicemail again, fuck—before calling the club. A server informs him with a lazy drawl that the Feds already left about fifteen minutes ago. He doesn’t know where else to look, so he turns the car around with a squeal of tires and guns for the motel, their rendezvous point. He’s relieved to see the Impala parked in the lot, but that relief is short lived when he opens the door to their room and finds Nick straddling his half-naked brother on _Sam’s_ bed. Now there’s only room for a blinding, burning, all-consuming rage.

Sam hurdles the other twin bed in his haste to get to Nick and yanks the other man forcefully off his brother, planting his body between them. He’s surprised when Nick looks at him cooly before baring pearly white teeth and grinning at him playfully like a cat and Sam, a toy mouse. Dean hasn’t protested or moved from the bed; instead, he’s writhing and making low, hungry moans, and Sam knows something’s majorly wrong.

“What have you done to him?” he demands, stretching up and out to his full breadth and height, the threat of violence clear in every corded muscle. He knows he’s an intimidating figure, but Nick, who’s several inches shorter than him, doesn’t bat an eye, looks positively gleeful with Sam’s wrath in fact.

“Nothing he didn’t want,” Nick taunts, eyes sparkling an unusual bright orange for a moment, and Sam realizes without a doubt that he’s facing the Siren. He thinks of the dagger inside his jacket, pressed against his chest, as the monster continues in a mocking tone. “In fact, I gave him what he _needed_. I gotta tell you,” Nick laughs delightedly, “it was a shock at first to find out that Dean’s perfect Dom was none other than his _little brother_ , Sammy.” Sam’s eyes widen slightly at the revelation, but he keeps the surprise in the rest of his body under check. “But then, I realized how beautiful this was. How…special. That level of devotion he has for you, a member of his own flesh, is intoxicating and I just had to hav–”

Sam snarls and launches himself across the space separating them. They crash through a decorative plastic divider, slam against several walls, and throw and catch a few punches each, before Sam’s able to wrestle Nick to the floor between the two beds and pin him with his legs and the bulk of his body. Nick’s mouth opens in a huge yawn and Sam glimpses grotesque alien anatomy before the thing _spits_ , strings of saliva splattering across his nose and cheeks and trickling into his mouth. Sam seals his lips, but it’s too late.

His vision is blurring around the edges. A flush of arousal burns through his veins, breaks to the surface of his skin, trying to bury and suffocate his anger. But Sam is driven more by the need to protect than to settle his rage, and hasn’t lost his wits enough to let go of the creature beneath him. The Siren realizes that Sam’s not relenting and begins yelling for help, “Dea–“, but that quickly tapers into a squeak when Sam punches its throat hard. He grabs the dagger from inside his jacket, sends up a brief apology to Dean as he stabs his brother in the meat of his shoulder, before bringing the bloody dagger down onto the thrashing and now panicking Siren. The monster screams silently, face a rictus of shock and agony, before its body shudders and lays still beneath his hands.

Sam’s heart is racing, breaths ragged and hands shaking from the post-fight adrenaline high, but he scrambles up intent on checking his brother…in time to see Dean crumple over the other side of the bed. “ _Dean!_ ”


	4. Chapter 4

**DEAN**

Dean is first aware of a low, steady hum in his ear and minute vibrations that tickle his cheek. He blinks groggily for a minute at the black stitched vinyl in front of his face, before his brain finally connects the dots. A glance upwards confirms he’s in the backseat of the Impala and that Sam’s behind the wheel. He doesn’t remember getting into the car or what had happened to make his body feel so sluggish, but he can’t find the energy to care right now. As long as he’s with Sam, he’ll be okay.

The car bounces slightly, and a throbbing in his shoulder makes itself known. He’s suddenly hyperaware of his body—cramped legs, a sore back, a pervading chill even though he’s completely covered in a woolen blanket. But the most uncomfortable sensation is the tingling all over his flesh, an aching need for something he can’t define. Now that he’s noticed it, the sensation grows exponentially and a frustrated whine unintentionally escapes his lips.

Sam’s head snaps sideways, eyes flicking back and forth from the road, “Dean?”

He wants to tell his brother that he’s fine, but all he manages is a hoarse “Sam” that sounds more like begging than reassurance.

Sam seems to sense his distress, “I think we’re far enough now. I’ll stop at the next motel so you can stretch out. Dean? Stay with me...”

Dean only catches every other word through the thick fog rolling in around his brain. He definitely loses some time, because the next thing he knows are hands reaching under his arms, sliding him out of the backseat. 

Sam’s touch is unexpectedly soothing. Dean pushes into his brother’s hands wanting more, even as his shoulder twinges in protest. He shoves with his legs, trying to help, trying to get closer. Eventually, Sam gets him to his feet, and Dean indulges in the solid line of heat where their bodies meet.

When they get inside their new motel room, Sam bypasses the bed closest to the door and deposits him gently on the farthest one instead. Dean gets that he’s in no shape to be on the front line right now, but he can’t help the bitter twist in his gut. He hates himself for being so weak, so needy. He sulkily brushes off Sam’s attempts to tuck him in—he’s a grown man for god’s sake—even though his body yearns for the contact. Sam relents and heads back to the car to retrieve their duffels. 

Dean lets gravity pull him down onto his back, but that’s about all he accomplishes before losing steam. He hears heavy footsteps return and the door snicking shut. Dean puts an arm over his eyes to shut out the image of Sam looking at him with fond exasperation before moving to kneel at his feet. 

As Sam tugs at the strings of his dress shoes, memories begin to stir and coalesce behind his eyelids. His pulse quickens and his breath hitches as he starts putting together a disturbing picture of his last few minutes in Bedford.

“Jesus,” he gasps. He drops his arm and stares intently at the ceiling tiles instead, but the memories continue to assault him. “Tell me we got the sonofabitch.”

“We did. I had to book it out of there though. Kinda left a mess behind.” 

Dean swallows heavily. “Nick?” he asks, but doesn’t need to see Sam’s nod to know. His eyes begin to water and his throat seizes up, but he doesn’t understand why. He thinks he should be angry, but he feels nothing but nausea and revulsion...not all of it aimed at Nick. He’s sick at the thought that Sam had discovered him in such a compromising position, more so because he’s not sure how far he had gone with Nick. There’s a sharp stab of guilt when he remembers how he hadn’t exactly stopped that first kiss and suddenly, he wants a shower. Wants to erase the phantom sensations of that monster’s disgusting hands and mouth on him. But his body is traitorous, too weak and drained to move.

He must have made some noise because Sam is hovering over him now, face creased with concern, thumb brushing away a tear that had slipped down his cheek unbidden. Dean petulantly resists when Sam prods him to move over, embarrassed by his overreaction to a little “bad touch.” But Sam is persistent, and eventually he’s lying on his uninjured side, curled within the crook of his ginormous brother’s body. Dean can’t deny that there’s an immediate sense of comfort and safety, a completeness that he had been craving ever since waking up. 

It’s been a long time since they’ve been this intimate with each other, but it’s just as right as Dean remembers. Sam’s arms fits perfectly in the groove of his waist, hand resting lightly over his stomach. Dean wants to sink into his brother’s heat, but at the same time, he doesn’t want to touch Sam or have Sam touch him, he’s so filthy. So he holds himself rigidly in his brother’s arms. Sam apparently misreads his tension as embarrassment over the situation.

“Bobby said the Siren has a very strong effect on subs.” Sam sounds clinical, like he’s stating facts from a pamphlet about supernatural STDs. “So I think you’re just experiencing a really bad drop.” _No kidding_.

Sam lifts his hand to trace the bandage on Dean’s shoulder, then his voice softens, becomes apologetic, “I would have used my own blood, but I wasn’t sure if I was affected enough.” 

_Wait, the Siren got Sam?_ Dean forgets his own worries, ignores the pain in his shoulder, and tries to twist around to look at his brother. 

Sam’s arm tightens around his waist, stilling his movements. “Stop squirming, you’ll hurt yourself. I’m fine. Their venom doesn’t work as well on Doms.” 

_Well, score another one for Doms_ , Dean thinks sarcastically, but there’s no bite. If Sam had been unable to resist the Siren, he’d still be under the spell and Sam might be.... He refuses to finish that thought. Minutes tick by in silence; then, just as Dean's about to drift off to sleep, Sam pipes up, “Hey, you need to eat, or drink something at least. You want food or just Gatorade?”

Dean doesn’t want either, just wants to stay in their makeshift little nest, but he knows his brother is right. 

Sam returns from the vending machine with two bottles; Dean drinks three-quarters of one under Sam’s watchful eye. After that, the itch to get clean comes back with a vengeance. In the bathroom, Dean checks over his body in the mirror. He’s pretty sure now he didn’t get that far with Nick, but there are a few unwelcome bruises on his hips and lower back. He steps under the grossly tepid spray and only stops scrubbing his skin raw when Sam knocks on the door asking if he’s okay.

That evening, Dean climbs reluctantly into his own bed. He doesn’t want to ask, but Sam doesn’t bother to either before following him under the covers. The solid wall of heat against his back, Sam’s chest rising and falling in time with his own, soon lull Dean to sleep.

*****

It’s a strange but welcome feeling, waking up to the warmth and shelter of another body. Dean never had that luxury with his playmates, so he burrows back into the mattress, soaking up the new sensation. Unfortunately, Sam stirs and chooses that moment to pull away and go to the bathroom. Dean lies still, facing the wall and waits.

He hears a flush, followed by running water, then the door reopening. But instead of a rush of cool air or a dip in the bed announcing Sam’s return, Dean hears the familiar zip of the duffel and the shushing sound of fabric. Dean looks over his shoulder and watches Sam getting dressed with disappointment. When Sam notices his audience, he smiles and gestures with a thumb over his shoulder, “I’m going for a run. I’ll bring back food” and proceeds to do exactly that.

When the door closes behind Sam, Dean rolls into the space that Sam vacated. But it’s cold already. 

Dean curses himself and rubs his eyes frustrated. It hasn’t been more than a few minutes and already he misses his brother. It’s funny how yesterday, he couldn’t think past _dirty filthy wrong_ when he realized that he had been supernaturally roofied and then molested. But now, he can’t stop thinking about the most intense subspace he had ever achieved, dropping so fast, so hard, so easy that he hadn’t even realized it. He had forgotten how good his body could feel, after being used as an instrument of pain for so long. The crash hadn’t been fun, but then Sam had been there, and Dean had felt a peace that had been lost to him ever since his trip downstairs. 

Christ, even after all these years, he’s still got it bad for Sam. Last night had just added fuel to the fire. 

With Sam gone, he gives in to the urge and goes to his duffel. The ribbon spills out from the tiny pocket, silky soft in the palm of his hand. 

He pulls up the memory of Christmas morning 1998, of a shorter and ganglier fifteen-year-old Sam handing him a tiny box wrapped in beautiful shiny paper instead of their traditional newspaper or brown paper bag. Dean had been ready to rag on his little bro for the girly display, but Sam had looked so damn serious that the quip had died on the tip of his tongue. He’d felt uneasy as he pried off the tape and wrapping paper. Nothing could have prepared him for the slip of red ribbon, stark and irrefutable on a bed of white cotton. 

*****

It had started innocent enough, with Dean teasing Sam about the paddle that a “secret admirer” had left in his school locker. “Bet you don’t even know how to use that, Samantha,” and the gauntlet was thrown. The day after their dad left for a hunt, Dean woke up tied face down to the bed. He had barely opened his eyes before the first blow landed. Fortunately, Sam was much smaller then and quite the novice so the blow made more noise than actually stung. Dean had just laughed and gave pointers, “Put your arm into it, bitch. Getting bored here, Sammy. Yeah…yeah…that's it." 

After sneaking in a few more sessions, Sam had become an expert with the paddle on Dean, getting direction just from Dean’s physical cues. Needing a new challenge, they began experimenting with other toys and quickly became addicted to the rush. They goaded each other further and further, crossing every line that Dean drew in the metaphorical sand. The only rule that didn't budge was the “no getting each other off” rule. That would make everything all too real in Dean's mind; somehow he could rationalize the rest as a learning experience. Yeah. It’s not like they had better, safer options. And if he started jerking off to thoughts of Sam, well, it was simply because skin mags didn’t compare to the real thing. 

*****

Dean remembers gaping in disbelief at the red ribbon that Christmas day, while his carefully crafted illusion—that this _thing_ between him and Sam was purely platonic—had come crumbling down. Red was a symbol of affection, an offer of commitment. Sam wanted to claim him. This was serious. Not as serious as a collar, but still, red was a promise to be exclusive to each other until they were both certain of taking that final step. Dean had wanted to tie the ribbon around his neck immediately.

But while his heart had been bursting with joy, his head had recoiled with horror – Sam is your _brother_. Your _younger_ brother. Dean knew he had fucked up colossally. To his knowledge, he had been Sam’s first and only. What if Sam was misinterpreting his feelings of lust for romantic love? If so, he would be screwing up Sam’s life even further by accepting this gift.

While he had groped for the words to let Sam down gently, Sam must have read the answer on his face, because his brother had grabbed the box out of his hands, mumbling “that’s fine,” “whatever” and “m'sorry.” On his way out the front door, Sam had tipped the box into the trashcan. 

Dean had quickly retrieved the ribbon, glad the box had provided protection from the rest of the waste. Just because he couldn’t accept it didn’t mean he didn’t want it. Sam had loved (or thought he loved) Dean enough to make an offer, and that meant a lot to him. Besides, he had a gut feeling that this might be the only token he would ever get of Sam’s affection. 

He was right. They had stopped playing together after that day, and Sam never mentioned claiming again. That is, not until now.

Forty years in Hell have changed Dean irrevocably from that boy who had let his head override his heart on that wretched Christmas day. He’s not that sub anymore who had teased, laughed and moaned as Sam plied his body with whips and chains. He’s not sure who he is anymore. The only thing he knows with certainty is that he still loves Sam, _wants_ Sam. And if Sam truly wants him back again…could he really say no a second time?


	5. Chapter 5

**SAM**

Running feels good; the steady pounding of his feet and the crisp air slicing through his lungs normally do wonders to clear his mind. But Sam has a different reason for running today - to lead him away from temptation.

Peeling himself away from Dean’s sleep-warm and pliant body had been an unpleasant task. But Sam figured his fiercely proud brother would want his personal space back after being sexually assaulted, subjected to a nasty subspace drop, and forced to cuddle with his little brother the previous day. When Sam had caught Dean watching him with hooded eyes and softly parted lips, it had taken all his willpower not to charge back, drive that body down into the mattress, and kiss that teasing mouth senseless. 

He can’t stop thinking about the Siren’s final words. They seem too good to be true, and Sam’s never been that lucky. He wants to pester Dean, ask _Is it true? Is it?_ like a bratty little brother until Dean either confirmed or denied the Siren’s claim, but that would be pretty pathetic for a Dom. He could corner Dean, force their dynamics to get his answer, but that would be a dick move. No, it would be better to wait. Wait until Dean was ready and came to him willingly. His brother’s complete and deliberate submission would be worth every minute.

*****

When he returns to the room with breakfast wraps and coffee in hand, Dean’s sitting upright in bed, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. Sam would have guessed that Dean had just risen from sleep, if it weren’t for the wet sheen on his skin and in his hair. Sam’s so distracted that he doesn’t notice being subject to a similarly intense scrutiny, until Dean’s deep voice breaks the silence: 

“Did you offer because you think you owe it to me?”

Sam stops abruptly in his steps and blinks owlishly at Dean. Leave it to Dean to be so blunt. Dean narrows his eyes and hardens his jaw. Sam’s unfazed by his brother’s posturing and intimidation tactics. He has nothing to hide.

He gets why Dean would ask, but he’s irritated that Dean would even think his offer was born solely of guilt or some twisted sense of duty. Like mind-blowing sex would be reasonable compensation for nearly four decades in Hell. Like Sam can’t simply want Dean for being _Dean_.

He could say all that, but he's afraid his brother will translate that to Sam calling him stupid…which he kinda is. So he decides to keep his answer simple and clear: “No,” he says, voice low and deadly serious. Then because his pigheaded brother doesn’t look completely convinced, he adds, “I love you.” Dean knows that they’re talking about more than brotherly love here. “I’ve been in love with you since I was fifteen, if you recall. Hell didn’t change anything.”

Sam meets Dean’s hard gaze, challenging his brother to refute his words. After staring each other down for a minute, Dean finally nods and looks away.

Sam takes that as a sign that this discussion is over. Whether or not Dean believes him…well, he’ll have to wait and see. He drops their breakfast on the table before peeling off his damp sweat suit and hitting the shower. He washes brusquely, unsettled by Dean’s question. He wonders what’s going on in his brother’s mind, since Dean hasn’t acknowledged his offer once until today.

He gets his answer when he steps out the bathroom door. 

Sam stops dead in his tracks, halts in the middle of toweling his dripping hair. He’s paralyzed by the sight before him. Overcome by the implications.

Dean is kneeling on the floor, head bowed low and arms resting behind his back. The boxers are gone, and Dean’s knees are spread, leaving all of his brother completely exposed to his gaze.

Sam forgets to breathe, hears nothing but the excited thumping of his heart. He doesn’t know how long he stands there staring, but it’s the sudden light-headedness that jolts him back to awareness. 

_Dean_ , Sam thinks reverently as he approaches his kneeling brother. Dean stiffens, but otherwise stays perfectly still for Sam’s inspection. 

The sunlight peeking through the gaps in the blinds brings out a gleam at the nape of his brother's neck. Curious, Sam circles around and is struck by the sight of shiny satin adorning that stretch of delicate skin…and right in the middle, twist-tied to perfection, is a pretty, little bow. 

A pretty, little, _red_ bow.

Blood rushes hot and heavy to his cock, and he barely restrains himself from shoving Dean forward, taking _his_ sub hard right there on the unforgiving floor and asserting his claim over Dean. Instead, he shuts his eyes and takes several harsh breaths, wrestles with his body for control. 

Once his urge is locked up tight, Sam crouches down to take a closer look. He’s never seen a red ribbon on Dean before. The bold color is absolutely stunning against his brother’s pale freckled skin and matches the pink flush rising up Dean’s neck to the tip of his ears. Upon further inspection, he notices the color is slightly faded and the seam broken in a couple of places, like it had been touched, rubbed quite often. Not brand new.

 _It can’t be_ , Sam thinks, although his gut is telling him that he’s seen this particular ribbon before. 

Now that he’s closer to Dean, he suddenly notices the minute trembling of the muscles underneath his gaze. Shit, he’d been so caught up in his own thoughts that he had failed to consider what his brother—his sub—might be feeling. He switches gears immediately, intent now on providing reassurance and comfort. He grips Dean’s shoulder firmly, caresses the ribbon reverently with his thumb, leans forward so his mouth is level with Dean’s ear and murmurs, “So beautiful, Dean. So beautiful and all mine.” 

Sam doesn’t need to be touching Dean to feel the tension draining out of his brother’s body. 

Pleased, Sam places a kiss on Dean’s shoulder, longs to know the truth, so he asks, “Is this the ribbon I offered you that Christmas?”

Dean nods slowly and Sam is stunned by the confirmation. He can’t believe that Dean has kept the ribbon all this time.

“Say it out loud,” he commands, needing to hear the words straight from his brother’s lips. 

Dean ducks his head even lower. “Yes, it’s yours.”

“You turned me down." He can't help the hint of accusation that slips into his voice. "I threw it away. Why did you retrieve it?” Sam desperately needs to know.

When Dean doesn't respond for a long moment, Sam grasps the bow and tugs the ribbon a little more tightly against Dean’s throat in a mild rebuke, feels the bob of Dean’s Adam’s apple when his brother swallows and finally confesses, “Because I wanted it.” Then a beat later, “I wanted you.”

Sam sighs. All this time Sam thought he had been the freak, for seeing something that wasn’t there, for wanting something so wrong. He feels vindicated knowing that Dean had felt exactly the same way, but upset that they’ve wasted all these years apart. He considers punishing his brother, but Dean’s too fragile right now, so he tucks the thought away for a later date.

He goes to the bed and sits down on the edge, tossing aside the towel around his own hips along the way. No need for modesty anymore. “Come here, Dean. You may walk.”

Sam notes the distinct lack of Dean’s usual grace and confidence as his brother rises and walks over to kneel docilely between his thighs. When he tilts Dean’s chin up, so they’re looking eye-to-eye, he sees the uncertainty and insecurity buried beneath the projected image of calm.

Sam cards his fingers through Dean’s hair, trying to assure his sub of his commitment. “You have no idea the things you make me want to do to you right now. I have ten years’ worth of fantasies about you. Once you’re in my bed, Dean, you won’t be leaving anytime soon.”

Sam feels the shiver that runs through Dean’s body under his hand, sees Dean’s cock filling with anticipation, mirroring his own.

“But,” Sam clenches his hand around the soft golden brown strands, sharply drawing Dean’s attention, “we’re not doing anything until we have a talk.”

Dean looks apprehensive, but nods.

“That’s one thing. From this moment forward, when I ask you a question, you answer by speaking, unless I specifically tell you otherwise. Understood?”

“Yes,” Dean immediately answers, albeit more tentatively than Sam likes.

Sam rewards him with a smile and another caress. “Good. We need to talk about your preferences and your triggers.”

A look of chagrin, with a trace of anger, crosses Dean’s face.

“None of that, Dean,” Sam rebukes. “If you haven’t figured it all out yet, that’s fine. I’m going to help you. But right now, I need to know what you do know, what works or more importantly what's going to set you off.”

His brother flushes with embarrassment at the reprimand, starts chewing on his lip as he thinks. Sam gives him more time than he would normally allow for a response. This is too important for rushed answers. Finally, Dean coughs out, “No blood…um, pain…humiliation,” sounding uncertain, before snapping his mouth shut. This isn’t exactly news to Sam. He can tell there’s more, but that his brother is reluctant to voice them.

“Keep going,” he orders.

Dean looks conflicted and, for a moment, Sam thinks that his brother might refuse. But then Dean’s shoulders slump and he continues with a sigh, “No name-calling, like slut, whore…” Once the gates are open, words spill out like a landslide, “…forcing me to beg…or gagging me. Not letting me come. I'm, uh, not sure about bondage and blindfolds anymore...anything that blocks my senses. Don’t like red. I mean the color red.” Sam raises his eyebrows and looks pointedly at Dean’s neck. “Um, a little bit is ok, just not a lot,” Dean amends.

Sam nods absently as he listens, focused on remembering and analyzing all this information. Some of the items on the list are broad. Sam suspects that they could refine that list with experimentation. Then he considers the idea that some of those triggers might not be triggers at all, but that Dean hadn’t been in the proper headspace to enjoy it. He’ll have to make some adjustments, but he already has a few ideas. 

Dean’s expression has been carefully neutral while watching Sam mull over his revelations. The mask doesn’t fool Sam. His brother is practically vibrating with anxiety, so he cups Dean’s face with one hand and says, “I know that was difficult for you to talk about, but you’ve pleased me by doing so.” 

Sam takes note of the way Dean‘s eyes light up at the words of praise. Dean had never needed praise before, so he wonders if this was a recent development. It’s hard to say. When they were younger, they didn’t have that dynamic because they hadn’t been in a true Dom-sub partnership. Even then, Sam couldn’t imagine saying such things, when he was a foot shorter and scrawny as a shrimp, to his big brother.

When Sam speaks again, he adds a bit more authority, “Next time, though, don’t be afraid to tell me what you’re thinking. Just say it. Can you do that for me?”

Dean nods sincerely this time as he voices an affirmative.

To demonstrate his approval, Sam leans forward and presses a kiss to the plush lips that have featured in his fantasies for over a decade. They don’t disappoint. Dean’s mouth is soft and parts readily for Sam’s exploring tongue. Sam uses all of his self-control to keep the kiss slow and tender, because he wants Dean to know that their relationship is about more than sex.

Parting is difficult, to say the least. Sam rests his forehead against Dean’s and asks, “Do you have any questions for me?”

Dean sounds hoarse, breathless when he asks, “Do you want me to wear the ribbon all the time?”

Sam deliberates for a moment. As much as he loves seeing his claim on Dean, the ribbon is too old and fragile for continuous wear. He’ll have to remedy that. “No, just for scenes or for special occasions.” And then he adds, before his sub could get the wrong idea, “When we get you something sturdier, you can bet your ass it’s never coming off.”

Sam hears a quiet “okay,” before his brother pulls away. Sam looks up, surprised, only to be met with earnest green eyes, “What should I call you?”

And Sam replies without skipping a beat, “Sam. Just Sam,” because nothing has ever sounded as amazing as his name on his big brother’s lips. 

The corner of Dean’s mouth twitches, something close to happiness on his face for the first time since Sam had walked into the room and found Dean on his knees waiting for him. 

“Alright. Sam,” Dean says, with a familiar hint of cheek, and Sam huffs in amusement and smiles back.

Sam can’t wait to try new things with Dean and to discover his brother all over again.

“I need to get some things before we do this. Tonight, Dean,” he promises. “Tonight.”


	6. Chapter 6

**DEAN**

Sam—the sentimental bitch—decides that their first day " _together_ together" is a special occasion.

"We ain't exactly breaking new ground, Sammy," Dean jokes, surprised when that doesn't earn him the typical eye-roll; instead, Sam looks pleased and his smile only grows wider when he suggests a celebratory breakfast somewhere on Main Street of this Small Town, USA. 

"You already bought breakfast," Dean points out.

Sam dismisses the brown paper bag with a wave of his hand. "That's cold by now. We'll save it for lunch on the road. I'd feel better with a couple more miles between us and Bedford. Let's get something hot, like pancakes, bacon, biscuits and gravy…" 

Dean's mouth had started watering at the first mention of food; and as Sam goes on, he notices that they're all _his_ favorite foods and not Sam's. His stomach starts quivering unpleasantly, uneasy with his little brother's doting attention and eagerness to, Dean suspects, announce his claim to the world. Sam is making a Big Deal over nothing, over something he could someday regret, so Dean fakes a nonchalant shrug and says, "Nah. Like you said, we should hit the road—" 

"No," Sam quickly cuts him off. "I want to." 

And Dean can't deny Sam again.

*****

Dean's doubts rise with every footfall and every mile ticking up on his Baby. Parked in front of Jolene's Country Kitchen, he hesitates to get out of the car and immediately hates himself for doing so. He pushes open the car door with more force than necessary (silently apologizing to Baby for the rough treatment) and forces his feet to follow Sam: up the front steps, through the door, past several occupied tables and the curious eyes of strangers, to an empty booth finally. 

He fiddles with everything within reaching distance on the table, anything that isn't the smooth silk wrapped around his neck. The press of the fabric is foreign against his skin. He can't ignore it; the smallest twitch of his head is a reminder. He can feel the weight of people's gazes on his neck, recognizing his status, judging him. He catches the eye of a young girl sitting at an opposite booth and flushes self-consciously. The sting of embarrassment annoys him. Ribbons and collars are perfectly normal sights; but maybe that’s it. He’s never had normal, been a part of the crowd, and never advertised his dynamic so openly. 

He makes a concerted effort to act casual, doesn’t want Sam to see his discomfort. Any sub would be proud to belong to Sam. His brother has had a smile playing on his lips ever since this morning; his eyes brighten a bit, look smug even, when they drift (often) to the mark of his possession. Dean doesn’t want to ruin his Dom’s good mood.

Their waitress is a cute, petite brunette that would normally make Dean turn on the charm without thought. But the newfound friction when he turns his neck is a solid reminder of his commitment now, so he levies nothing more than a tight smile at their server. Sam's brows knit together; Dean doesn't know what to make of that.

He wouldn't be surprised if he was somehow screwing this up already. He’s happy that Sam still wanted to claim him, but there’s also the nagging doubt that he wouldn't be, couldn't be, everything his brother wanted and deserved. He would do anything not to let Sam down. Making Sam happy, providing for him, has always been his purpose in life, as sub or brother. But he has to face the fact that his 'anything' might not be good enough anymore. Dean's grateful that their food arrives quickly, and he has something else to focus on besides his gloomy thoughts.

Once they're back on Main Street, Sam directs him to pull up in front of the first sex shop they see on the road. 

When Sam disappears inside, Dean watches the door for a while to make sure Sam doesn’t return before slipping into the liquor store next door. He’s at the bottom of his current bottle, and he’s not completely confident that he won’t need some liquid courage tonight or tomorrow morning. Dean feels a surge of self-consciousness again when he’s in front of the cashier, but the haggard looking clerk barely glances at him as he rings up the purchase and counts out the change. 

As Dean turns away towards the door, he crashes into a wall of muscle and checkered fabric. Steel hands grip his arms steadying him. Dean looks up and meets blue eyes, sees the look of appreciation before those eyes drop downwards to the red satin around his neck. The man quickly lets go and says, “Excuse me," in a clipped tone before stepping around Dean into the store.

Dean's a bit stunned by the sudden dismissal. Doms are pretty territorial, so it’s an unspoken rule not to mess with claimed subs, especially without their Dom around. Not everyone respects the rule, but it's considered politically correct and polite. Dean just finds it weird to be on the receiving end. 

He's back in the driver's seat a good five minutes before Sam returns, brown paper bag tucked securely out-of-sight beneath his seat.

*****

They drive for a couple of hours, on their way to another case, only stopping briefly at an empty park for a restroom break and to snack on the wraps that Sam had originally bought for breakfast. Although cold, it tastes pretty good; and even if it sucked ass, Dean wouldn't waste perfectly good food. Once done, they toss their wrappers into the trash can eight feet away, and Dean crows with victory when he scores and Sam misses. He doesn't see Sam's indulgent smile and forgets about the ribbon around his neck for the next fifty miles.

*****

The sun has crawled halfway down in the sky when they arrive at their next motel. They had decided to stop a couple of towns over from their actual destination, because they didn't want the case (and possibly a monster) hanging over their heads while they tested the waters of their new relationship.

Dean had been worried that Sam would balk at the laundry list of items that most subs would happily do for their Dom, but Sam had been totally unruffled. Dean had wanted to surge forward then and steal a kiss from his Dom, but thought that would be in bad form.

They keep dinner light that evening. Dean doubts he could have eaten much anyways; butterflies occupy most of the space in his stomach. If Sam is nervous, he doesn't show it.

When they get back to the hotel, Sam settles down with his laptop, while Dean flips on the TV. When Dean's sure that Sam is sufficiently engrossed in his reading, he goes to his duffel to grab his nightclothes, tucks a brown bottle discretely into the pile, before announcing his plans to shower.

Sam doesn't even look up.

Dean locks the bathroom door, places his bundle carefully on the toilet, and turns on the water as a noise buffer. The bottle cap twists off easily and he takes a healthy swig before releasing a contented sigh. He's on his third upward swing when he catches his reflection in the mirror above the sink. He sees the circles under his eyes; the red ribbon gleaming against his pale skin; the mouth of the bottle resting on his lips, amber liquid balancing precariously on the edge; and Sam's disapproving frown.

He lowers the bottle, closes his eyes and wills the image to go away.

When he opens them, Sam is still there. And that's when he notices the open door.

Not his imagination. Sam was really standing there. _Fuck_.

"How much, Dean?" Sam speaks quietly, but there's steel in his tone.

Dean swallows, opens and closes his mouth a couple times until he finally finds his voice. "J-just two sips. I swear." Dean doesn't know where the pleading note and the sudden need to appease Sam comes from. Before, he would have yelled at his brother for picking the lock and getting on his case. _But_ , his mind supplies, _he isn't just your brother now; he's your Dom_.

Sam steps forward and takes the bottle out of his limp grasp; his anger seems to deflate a bit when he sees the mostly full bottle, but that anger is replaced by something worse—disappointment.

 

   
**SAM**

Sam thinks he should have expected this. His brother has always relied on alcohol to soothe his largely invisible wounds, more so since his return from Hell.

But ever since they stepped out of the motel that morning, Sam had been consumed with rejoicing and gloating over his claim— _Mineminemine_ , and the world needed to damn well know it. Although Dean's inhibited behavior at the restaurant had made him frown, he hadn’t put much thought into it, confused by his own feelings of pleasure mixed with discontentment. He disliked Dean's casual flirting; but a Dean that didn't do so was _unnatural_. He'd been trying to sort out his feelings, when the food had arrived. His brother had dug in with his usual gusto, and Sam had dismissed that train of thought to do the same. From that moment on, Dean had seemed genuinely happy and relaxed. It's only obvious to Sam now—turning the bottle over in his hands—that isn't the case. 

Dean looks downtrodden…scared. Of him, his brother. _His Dom, you moron_. Sam winces. He can't reconcile this timid Dean with the feisty Dean he's always known. But it's a different situation now. Brothers. Lovers. This shouldn't be so fucking complicated. He hasn't worked out quite yet how to balance being both brother and Dom, but he knows something that needs to be fixed immediately. Dean shouldn't ever be afraid of him. Dean needs to trust him as his Dom, as much as he does his brother. Dean needs to know how much Sam wants him and would never let go. Sam hopes actions will speak louder than words.

“Safe word?”

The question clearly startles Dean, eyebrows jumping to his hairline. "What?" 

"Tell me your safe word, Dean." 

A flurry of emotions crosses Dean's face, wiping away that dreadful look of fear; Sam can tell the moment that his brother figures out what he means and that he's dead serious. “Red.”

Sam nods in appreciation. He prefers using colors himself, easy to remember and no ground for confusion. “And 'yellow' if you need me to pause. You’ll be in more trouble if you don't use them like they’re supposed to be used. Understood?”

Dean jerks his chin up and down, but remembers to say "Yes."

Sam’s eyes darken, “Good. Now strip and go kneel on the bed.”


	7. Chapter 7

**DEAN**

Dean shrugs out of his clothes in the bathroom under Sam's hungry gaze. He knows that his new body is perfectly crafted from the mole on his left hip to the starburst birthmark on his inner thigh. All of his scars and blemishes have been removed as well. He's never been in better shape. Yet he's still self-conscious, with the phantom itch of old scars on his skin and the knowledge that he’s permanently disfigured in intangible ways.

He tamps down those thoughts and tries to look self-assured when he moves to exit the bathroom. Sam doesn't budge from his spot by the door, and Dean feels even more naked when he's forced to brush skin-to-flannel to get by.

Before he can cross the threshold though, large hands clamp down on his hips, stilling him, and lips crash down onto his, demanding and possessive, and Dean crumbles under the onslaught. He uses one hand to draw Sam closer, the other to brace himself against the door frame as he pushes his body against Sam's.

But just as quickly as it had started, Sam suddenly pulls back and lets out a sigh. Dean wonders if he's done something wrong again, until his brother speaks.

"I'm not mad at you, Dean." And Dean feels a knot in his stomach unwind. "Just…I wish you'd come to me instead of…this"—he tips the bottle in his hand. Dean flushes with guilt, the disapproval from his Dom hurting more than he thought possible. He opens his mouth to say something—what, he's not sure—but Sam's not waiting for an apology or promises. A light push towards the bed tells him this conversation is over. Although Dean can honestly say that the message had been received loud and clear.

Dean takes his position on the bed, as Sam goes to retrieve his purchases from that day. He's made mental guesses all afternoon about the items that might be in the large, but discrete, black nylon bag. The list he comes up with is short; he didn't exactly give Sam much to work with.

The two long lengths of sheer white silk fabric are a complete surprise. Sam kneels in front of Dean, placing the fabric into two neat piles on the bedcovers.

"Hold out your wrists."

Sam picks up one end of silk, twists it so that it forms a thin, flat strap, before wrapping it around Dean’s right wrist and closing the loop with a skillful knot, one that won’t tighten no matter how much he might pull. “Is this too tight?”

Dean’s about to shake his head, when he remembers Sam's first instruction. “No, it feels good."

Sam smiles, satisfied, then repeats his actions with the other length of silk on Dean’s left wrist.

When he’s done, he picks up the remaining swaths of silk. Dean must not have hidden his sudden bout of nervousness very well, because Sam looks him in the eyes and says, “You can say your safe word any time.”

He manages to utter, "I'm fine, Sam," which seems to be enough assurance, because his brother resumes his work.

Dean’s surprised when Sam doesn't drag him backwards to the bedposts and strap his arms apart. Instead, Sam folds his arms across his abdomen and lays them flat against his belly. Sam instructs him to unclench his fists and flatten his hands as well. Dean thinks it's like hugging himself.

He holds the position while Sam shakes out the silk. When they're thinner and wider, Sam criss-crosses the two pieces behind his back and brings them to the front again. The silk slides smoothly over his flesh, warms instantly to skin temperature, and Dean admits it feels pretty good. Nothing like the cold unyielding edge of metal. The tension slowly bleeds out of his body as Sam repeats the motions, looping the silk in a deliberate pattern until Dean's arms and torso are almost fully-cocooned in white.

When Sam has tied the last knot, Dean instinctively tries to move his arms and hands, but the bindings don't give an inch. He's locked up tight, but instead of freaking out like he expects, he finds himself unexpectedly calm. Secure. More so when Sam scoots around behind him to sit, propped up on pillows, against the headboard and pulls him down at the waist, until his ass lands in the vee of Sam’s legs and his back comes to rest against a sturdy chest.

Long, muscled arms wrap around his bundled torso and strands of hair tickle his neck as a voice murmurs in his ear, “Open your legs.” Dean obeys.

Soft-worn jeans rub up against his calves when Sam's larger feet hooks inside Dean’s ankles and spreads him wider, pins him open. Dean's cock swells, and he knows that Sam is affected by the display as well, judging by the hard, sizeable bulge digging into his tailbone.

“Don’t move,” he hears. Then he feels the press of dry lips along his exposed neck, teeth nipping at his pulse point, fingertips skimming across his chest; they find his nipples easily under the thin silk, rubs and teases them to stiff peaks. They don't linger though and wander back up instead, through his hair, down his neck, shoulders, arms, and chest to nipples once again. Sam squeezes them, softly at first, but harder with every turn, until Dean's gasping from the twin sparks of pain that quickly melt into pleasure, and finds himself eager for the next hit. Neck, shoulder, arms, chest, and repeat. His cock is full and heavy now, straining upwards and eagerly seeking the attention of his Dom. But Sam ignores it; and Dean just takes it, surrenders to his Dom's will.

Just as his body settles into the rhythm, a fingernail scrapes over his slit, and his body involuntarily bucks towards the stimulation. He whimpers at the too-brief contact; but that whimper quickly turns into a moan when those teasing fingers return to caress and gently tug at his swollen balls. Fingers grasp his chin and slant his face upwards until those moans are met by wide lips and swallowed with a wet, searching kiss.

Sam's grip remains firm when they break apart, chests heaving, and forces him to look into those familiar slanted eyes, darker now with lust and need: "Mine, Dean."

Sam doesn't order him to say anything back, but the hope and expectation is clear in his eyes. And Dean finds it easy to say, "Yours, Sam," because there is no other truth.

Sam rewards him by laying a claim on his bare skin, sucking what-will-be a spectacular bruise onto the delicate stretch of flesh between his shoulder and neck; the previously featherlight touches become swift, heavy pulls up and down the length of his shaft, and when Sam commands "Come,” it takes just a few more harsh strokes for Dean to obey, every nerve singing and vision whiting out as his body surges up in release…

He's floating in a fog, pliant as Sam manhandles him gently onto his back. He distantly hears the slide of a zipper, glimpses warm hazel eyes, inhales the musky scent that is all Sam. He feels a barely-there brush of lips over his as he's spread open by strong, sure hands, pinned like a butterfly. He revels in the burn of muscle and the wall of heat against the back of his thighs, then there’s a push, and that heat is searing him from the inside out.

Sam rocks into him and Dean takes it all with a sigh.

 

**THE END**

  


**My Soundtrack:**  
Hurricane - MS MR  
Beneath Your Beautiful - Labrinth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with me until the end, for your notes of encouragements along the way, and for the kudos that gave this fledgling writer more confidence. They truly inspired me to keep going and to see this through. :)
> 
> I have some very basic ideas for future timestamps, so I've tagged this story as part of a series.
> 
> Thanks to fobsessed54 for being my first cheerleader and dealing with my demands for quick beta. Thanks also to skeletncloset and somersault_j for cheering me on at the end and motivating me to complete this darn thing!
> 
> And special thanks to the amazing alexisjane for pulling double duty as alpha/beta on the entire updated fic. She turned the 13,000 words around in record time so you wouldn't have to wait one second longer for the conclusion. You are a rock star, babe! Oh, but don't blame her for part 7 - I pulled a fast one on her so all mistakes and poor choices are totally on me!


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